Chapter Ten – The Writing on the Wall
The skeevers that had been attracted by the unearthly racket he'd made trying to knock the gate down had been nothing he couldn't handle. Maybe that had been why the gate had been closed; whoever had gone through previously and lit the candles and braziers didn't want the disease-ridden pests getting into the camp.
He made his way down a spiral staircase that he was certain was going to give way beneath his weight at any second, only to find himself entering a chamber decorated with glistening cobwebs. Spiders didn't bother him, but with the amount and thickness of the strands of web he was seeing, he knew he was in for a fight worse than the tunnels beneath Helgen. And he'd had Ralof with him that time. Now he was alone.
He continued down a corridor and shuddered when he saw the amount of webs increasing. By the time he actually noticed the doorway, he felt like he was inside a giant cocoon rather than a burial site. A horrific place that only a bard touched by Sheogorath could imagine. Every time he put his feet down, they stuck to the thick white carpet, squelching as he peeled them up again for his next step. Trying to push through the doorway was impossible. The webs that covered it were too dense and for a fleeting moment he thought that he'd managed to get himself trapped before managing to wrench his arm free. That meant that there were a lot of spiders on the other side… or just a few really big ones. Either way he wouldn't know until he hacked his way through it.
Leto grunted in disgust as his efforts of clearing the doorway were rewarded by a face-full of the sticky sheeting. He was peeling it off and fumbling with it now stuck to his hands when a voice cried out.
"Is... is someone coming? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"
The young Nord paused. That voice carried a strong Dunmer accent. He didn't know much about mer, given how isolated his village had been, but there had been a dark elf couple that lived there; and there was no mistaking the inflection.
"I know I ran ahead with the claw, but I need help!"
The claw? Was this the thief 'Arvel' that had been mentioned before by the now-dead bandits inside the doorway? If so, that was good. He could get the golden ornament and be one step closer to being able to get out of this Oblivion spawned crypt.
He made his way into the web-coated chamber, searching for the source of the voice. When he found the Dunmer, sandwiched between layers of sticky-silken sheets and hanging helplessly, he made his way over, keeping an eye out for any sign of movement.
Leto looked the Dunmer up and down, not sure whether to be amused at the elf's predicament or shudder at the fact he was strung up to be some beast's next meal. As far as the Nord could see, the Dunmer had been backing away from something, weapon drawn, and gotten stuck in more webbing like those that had covered the doorway he'd come through. Then more sticky white stuff had been placed over him to keep him trapped. His bow was out of reach, dangling uselessly from the webs near his leg as though he'd dropped it in fright as he became stuck.
"Are you Arvel?" Leto asked, settling on grinning at the pinned elf. Without the spider that caused the problem being around, he had to admit he looked a little funny; pinned between blankets of webbing with his limbs splayed out in a comic display with only his flushed face uncovered.
"What? Who are you?" The Dunmer strained against his entrapment, apparently not sharing the Nord's amusement. "Oh, never mind. Cut me down before that thing gets us!"
"Are you Arvel?" Leto repeated, raising his sword a little as a threat of death or a promise of freedom; however the elf wanted to interpret it.
"Yes," he sighed.
So this was the thief that had stolen Lucan's claw from the counter of his shop. Good; one job down. "You have the claw I want."
"Yes, yes, now cut me down or you'll never get it," the Dunmer said as he squirmed impatiently. When Leto shot him a scowl, he stilled and seemed to decide to change tactics. "Help me down and I'll show you what it's used for. You won't believe the power the Nords have –" His crimson eyes suddenly widened and he stared at something behind and above Leto. "No, not again! Get me down! Now!"
A writhing strip of shadow fell over Leto and he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The terror on Arvel's face told the young Nord all he needed to know about what was coming, as did his panicked shrieking and thrashing, but morbid instinct couldn't stop him from slowly turning around to see the horror for himself.
He gulped. That spider was bigger than he was, and he was anything but small. Dark ichor dripped from several punctures on its body, no doubt from the thief's attacks before he wound up snared in the creature's webs. Its hairy legs twitched as it lowered itself on a thick, white cord to the floor that was already littered with so many previous web-cocooned meals. It seemed it had been hiding in a large circular opening in the ceiling that Leto hadn't noticed before.
Leto almost stepped back into the terrified Dunmer before collecting himself and remembering that becoming ensnared in the same trap would wind up with them both dead. The young Nord might want to be reunited with his family in Sovngarde, but he didn't fancy making it there by being sucked dry of his insides by a spider more than twice the size of a bear.
When the creature's legs touched the floor, Leto was already moving, skirting the edge of the room back toward where he had entered. The spider rose its front two legs and hissed, skittering around to face its next-intended meal.
"Where are you going? Come back!" Arvel screamed, struggling for all he was worth.
Leto ignored the thief and switched his sword for his bow. The spider lunged forward, spitting a grey-green glob of poison. The young Nord tried to dive to the side but caught the sticky poison on his hip. He grunted as the venom soaked through the gaps of his armour, chilling him to the core as it burned his skin with an icy bite. Not even a second later he felt his gut roiling, his head spinning, as the poison started its work.
His hip and leg muscles felt strangely numb while his skin seethed as though he'd dunked himself into an icy river in the dead of winter. As the giant spider skittered toward him, he loosed an arrow. With a satisfying squelching sound it sunk into the creature's foul smelling flesh. Its mandibles gnashed in rage and another gobbet of poison was spat.
It missed Leto entirely and he risked a glance backward. He was close to the doorway. If he could get through there and make it back to the spiral staircase then he'd be able to shoot at it while it tried to get up the narrow steps. Surely it was too big to fit up them…
A hissing sound drew his attention back to the monster and he let another arrow fly. This one punctured an eye and the chamber echoed with a screech that had Leto's heart jumping into his throat. He'd known spiders could hiss… he hadn't known they could scream.
The creature was wounded, making it clumsy as it darted forward to try and latch its spiky mouth-parts onto the young Nord's head. He shot again, and even though it was poorly aimed and fired with trembling hands, the arrow still pierced one of the slimy, spiky and altogether disgusting mandibles.
The spider stumbled back, hissing in pain. It didn't take long before another ball of venom came flying at Leto, catching him on the shoulder and a few drops splattering against his face. He cried out and swiped at it instinctively, dropping the arrow he'd been about to nock.
He forced himself to keep his eyes open, despite the fear that the icy venom might have splashed into one. With the spider's front legs raising up again in angry challenge, he couldn't afford to let the hideous thing out of his sight.
Spiders had never bothered him before. Even the ones in Helgen had just reminded him that, while they were disgusting little creatures, they were nothing to be afraid of because they died just as well as any nuisance. But he'd also never encountered one quite this big before. He'd never seen one that's smaller eyes were easily the size of his fists.
And to complete the experience, this one was pissed off that its meal was fighting back.
The damn thing could probably swallow him whole… then he remembered that that's not how spiders killed their prey. It was so much worse than that.
He backpedalled into the doorway, spurred on by imagining those disgusting mouth-parts sinking into his flesh, feeling their icy bite as he had his insides sucked out. He heard Arvel crying out for help, begging Leto not to leave him there, but he ignored him. For now the thief was safe. The spider was too distracted with Leto to bother with a target already pinned and waiting to be eaten.
As Leto reached for another arrow, trying to keep his hands steady against the poison seeping into his skin, the spider lunged. He swore he nearly soiled his armour when its front legs reached for him, tiny claws at the ends flexing. But his undignified squeak of terror turned into a defiant laugh when he realised that the hideous creature couldn't fit through the gap and had actually become wedged, making it easy pickings for his arrows… even though he could barely aim a bow straight.
The spider spat poison at him again and he leapt to the side, narrowly dodging the icy venom as it splattered against the wall. He straightened back up and aimed the bow again. The arrow lodged itself in what passed for a shoulder joint on the hairy monstrosity, making it shriek in pain and rage. Leto kept firing arrows, grinning fiercely as the spider tried to abandon attacking him to scurry back of the doorway, only to discover that it couldn't go anywhere. After another arrow that sunk into its bulbous back, the creature gurgled before crumpling to the stone floor, legs curling inward and spasming.
Leto had been aiming for its face the whole time… but he'd take them as good shots since the nightmare-inducing thing was dead.
Now the only problem was getting past it and back into the room with the captive Dunmer. A disgusted shudder ran up his spine when he realised he was going to have to push the giant spider out of the way. He slung his bow over his shoulder and stared at the occasionally-twitching and foul smelling corpse. Venom was dripping from its mandibles and dark ichor oozing from the puncture wounds to its body.
Like most Nords, personal hygiene had never been something of terrible import to Leto. If your hands were dirty and you were about to eat, you rinsed them. If you'd just fought a troll and were covered in their gore, you should probably clean up a little before embracing a loved one. But he had been a blacksmith's apprentice, constantly covered in soot and sweat rather than creature blood, and lived in the frozen Jerall Mountains; he didn't need to bathe every day and smell of snowberries or flowers when he was just going to be slaving over the hearth again and getting just as filthy the next day. Just the thought of having to press his hip and shoulder against the dead spider to shove it out of the way, however, when he was already covered in blood, gore, webs and venomous spit made him want to go and jump into the nearest river and scrub himself raw.
It was only when he heard Arvel's panicked voice again that Leto realised he hadn't moved and was still staring that the corpse in front of him.
"You did it. You killed it. Now cut me down before anything else shows up."
Those words were enough to encourage him to get over the disgust and get moving. His hip ached where he'd been hit with the poison and he felt as though he might vomit or collapse… maybe both. The arm that had taken the poison was the same one that he'd been shot in, and the icy pain creeping into the inside of the wound was making his head spin violently. He supposed he was lucky that the splash to his face hadn't hit his eye, but he still wasn't in any condition to fight another battle.
Making noise of protest and disgust the entire time, he managed to shove the spider's corpse just far enough back out of the doorway for him to slide past it. At least in death its body had been relaxed enough to free it from where it had wedged itself. He had liked the idea of trying to clamber over the damned thing and try to squeeze himself between it and the top of the doorway even less than what he had actually done.
The thief was grinning at him, congratulating and gleeful now that he wasn't about to be dinner. Leto simply scowled and stopped in front of his squirming body, waiting for the giddiness to fade. It didn't take long, given that Arvel was still trapped and even though he had been lifted a foot off the floor when he'd been snared, the Nord in front of him was still looking down to his face.
"Well, come on, get me down!"
"Hand over the claw!" Leto growled, trying to sound as menacing as possible. Surely the thief would realise that he had had to cut his way through his friends to make it this far. And he had just killed the giant monster… so he should look intimidating rather than exhausted like he felt.
Arvel wiggled against the webs, an eyebrow arching. "Does it look like I can move?"
Leto blinked. Right, if he couldn't get himself free, he couldn't reach into his pack either. "Oh… good point. Alright, fine, I'll cut you down, then you give me the claw. Deal?"
"Alright I promise, just get me down!"
Leto drew his sword and gave one last glare at the thief before he searched or the best place to start hacking. The Dunmer might not be a bandit, but he had been working with them, and he had stolen. But until he attacked, the young Nord couldn't just kill him. There was no honour in killing a helpless man, and Leto had seen enough death to last him the rest of his days. And he'd certainly been the cause of enough of that death too.
Being careful not to accidentally hit the elf beneath, he hacked at the thicker ropes of webbing. With every strike, Arvel first flinched and then grinned as he started to feel his bonds loosening.
"It's coming loose. I can feel it."
Leto barely managed to pull back a swing in time to miss him as he started thrashing again. "Would you hold still? I nearly took your arm off!"
The Dunmer abruptly stopped moving and let the hulking Nord free him. When his feet hit the stone floor he breathed a deep sigh of relief, likely the most he'd been able to fill his lungs in a long time.
"Sweet breath of Arkay, thank you."
Leto nodded and sheathed his sword and held his hand out expectantly. "You're welcome. Now, give me the…"
He trailed off when the thief grinned and spun on his heel. Faster than Leto could blink, he was darting down the corridor that had been blocked by his cocoon. "You fool, why would I share the treasure with anyone?"
"Hey!" Leto hollered as he started after him. "Get back here!"
The thief was quick on his feet, but Leto had the advantage of a much longer gait – not to mention the fuel of anger and embarrassment – on his side. He'd only just emerged from the short, winding corridor and into a semi-circular room decorated with urns and ancient stoneware before he felt a fist like iron latch onto the back of his armour. The young Nord had dove at the thief, scruffing him and slamming them both into the solid, ridged altar-like table in the centre. The thief was gasping, trying to get his wind back after having it crushed from him by far-too-many pounds of angry Nord landing on him, while Leto spun him around slammed his back onto the stone. Arvel was still choking as he grabbed the front of the thief's armour and lifted him up by it so they were eye-to-eye.
The thief's crimson ones widened when he saw clear-blues glaring at him with the fierceness of an angry bear. "Give me the claw, you scrawny little snow-back!"
"Alright! Alright, just put me down and I'll give it to you," the Dunmer squeaked, feet kicking at thin air.
Leto shook him viciously, not caring if he jarred the thief's neck. "I'm not falling for that again."
The Nord glared into the elf's red eyes, putting on his most fearsome scowl. Arvel was gripping his gauntleted wrists in both hands, feet dangling uselessly. One hand slowly let go and started moving. Faster than Leto could blink, the thief drove his thumb down against the dot of red staining the bandage around his bicep, digging his nail in as deep as he could. Instead of reaching into his satchel like Leto had thought, he'd been gearing up to attack.
The Nord howled and dropped him, gripping at his wound as the blood stain began to spread across the linen. He heard the sound of a sword being slid from its scabbard and swung his fist wildly, hoping to knock it out of Arvel's hand before he could use it. The thief agilely dodged aside, using the table Leto had originally slammed him against as leverage to roll around behind the Nord.
Leto whipped around, tearing his own sword from its sheath. The Dunmer thief ducked under the first swing easily, angling his iron sword up in an attempt to slip it into his armpit where there was nothing but leather protecting him. Before the blade-tip could make contact, Leto curled his steel-protected arm around it and yanked back.
Arvel gave a cry of shock as the hilt of his sword slipped from his fingers. The Nord tossed it away. The loud clang as it clattered across the stone floor echoed off the walls, making both of them cringe.
Leto held his sword out, aiming at the Dunmer's chest. "Claw. Now."
Instead of obeying, Arvel reached into his boot and drew a dagger. "I'm not sharing the treasure!"
He leapt forward, snarling. Leto moved into the attack and felt the jolt up his arm as the thief's body fell onto his sword. He thrust it deeper, waiting for the choked gurgles to stop before stepping back and lowering his blade, letting the now-dead Arvel slump to the floor.
Leto leaned back against the table to catch his breath. While the fight hadn't been strenuous, his heart was pounding from the adrenalin flooding his veins. He hadn't wanted to kill Arvel, but when he'd attacked he'd had no choice. It was him or Leto. But even so… while killing had become something of a common occurrence in the past week, he wasn't used to it.
He pulled himself together quickly; he had a job to do and he'd had no choice. And besides, bandits and a thief? That was no great loss to Skyrim.
After swiping his sword through the air a few times to clean off most of the blood, Leto sheathed it and knelt beside Arvel to search him. He found what looked like a journal, but left it be since he couldn't read it. When his fingers touched something cool and ridged, he grinned.
As he pulled the golden claw from the dead thief's satchel he couldn't help but feel relief. One job down, one to go. As soon as he found that chunk of rock the Jarl's wizard wanted, he could put this tomb behind him.
He tucked the ornament into his own knapsack and made sure it was secure and wouldn't fall out if he had to fight. So far he considered himself extremely lucky that he hadn't come across any draugr. But that also made him suspicious. This was supposed to be a burial crypt, so where were all the bodies of long-gone warriors? Why did the bandits make camp here believing that there was some kind of treasure? He could understand why Farengar believed that an ancient tablet was in the Barrow… but the questions were just making him nervous.
He breathed out a sigh and rose to his feet. There was only one way he was going to get answers and find the damned stone tablet he'd been sent for. Only one doorway, on the opposite side of the room, seemed to lead anywhere. The other two were either lined with shelves or seemed to have been a storage area at one point in long-forgotten history.
A brazier was lit in the hallway and Leto could see more light coming from further into the ruins. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Either someone had been through here recently enough that the fires hadn't yet burned out, or some kind of magic was keeping the tomb lit eternally. He doubted the former, as Arvel had been trapped in webs for who-knew how long and surely if some of his companions had gone ahead without him, they would have circled back to check why he had lagged behind… and they likely would have killed the giant spider before moving on too. The latter was an idea he didn't want to try and think too deeply about. Magic was a fool's venture; nothing good ever came from studying how to manipulate the world around you to your whim and harnessing knowledge best left unknown.
He kept his hand on his sword hilt, finding some reassurance in the feel of the leather and steel against his fingers, as he moved onward. As he padded down a slope he saw the first evidence of the Barrow being a tomb; shelves carved into the walls on either side housed the long dead warriors and heroes of old. Well, there was the answer to one question… he rather preferred it unanswered though. Their armour had decayed, patches of it warn away and leaving little more than rusted remnants clinging to the desiccated husks of those that wore them. A chill ran up his young Nord's spine as he took in their disfigured faces; shrivelled and leathery and completely discoloured, patches of wiry hair clinging to skulls, both on top and along the jawline in some cases.
He gulped and averted his eyes, focusing completely on the floor as he emerged from into a large chamber with more occupied stone beds. Some of the draugr were either naked – their burial armour or outfit likely having been made from something that rotted quickly with their corpses – or wrapped up in linens, leaving nothing but their heads poking out. He didn't want to wonder why some were interred that way, while others were fully armoured, laid to rest with their withered hands holding their sword upon their breast.
Leto shouldn't be here. These places were for those lost in great battles, so their bodies could rest in peace while their souls rejoiced in Sovngarde. He felt like a dirty grave-robber, even though he had less than no intention of looting the bodies. The idea that he was trespassing, once it entered his mind, wouldn't leave. Sure, he'd been sent by a Jarl and his court wizard to retrieve something from the Barrow, but the living had no place creeping around the honoured dead.
And he had to admit to himself that he was creeping. His footfalls were as light as he could make them, as though he were trying not to wake the bodies up. The thought sent another shiver down his spine and an icy feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew he was being foolish, but he couldn't help but remember the tales of his childhood… the ones where the draugr walked the halls of their tombs, killing anyone living who dared to disturb their burial place. The stories where disobedient children who refused to do their chores or go to bed when told would be taken away by the bone-walkers and never seen again.
Internally he told himself how stupid he was being. But he didn't utter a sound aloud, because he was still too afraid. He cringed with every step, hearing the creaking and clanking of his armour as he tried to move silently through the chamber. He moved around a half-crumbled stone pillar and caught sight of some kind of spiked gate up ahead. It was open wide, but a large, circular stone with a rune carved into it made him pause to examine it closer. A pressure-plate trap. One step on that round stone and the gate would swing forward. Leto made a mental note to keep his eyes peeled for more traps.
There was a loud creaking sound, and the young Nord stiffened. He hadn't moved again yet. That wasn't his armour that was scraping against stone. Two loud thumps – heavy boots on the floor – followed by a dusty, rattling snarl.
Leto glanced behind him and was met with the mummified face of a long-dead Nord. The desiccated eyelids should have been closed, just as they were seconds ago, but instead they were wide open, revealing glowing blue magic where eyes had rotted away. Even though both face and magical eyeballs were beyond the ability of forming expression, Leto swore he could see fury and something akin to hatred burning in the blue glow.
For the first time since entering the Barrow, Leto was glad there was no one around to hear him squeal like a little child. Draugr were supposed to be a myth! They were meant to be nothing but a legend used to frighten children away from straying too far from their home and into the ancient ruins dotting Skyrim's landscape. When he and his sister were children, he used to use stories of the restless dead to make her do his share of chores or go to bed, telling her that the bone-walkers would come down from the mountainside and take her away if she wasn't a good girl and did what she was told. It was the same lot of stories that older children used to tell him when he was too small to realise they were lying. The tavern keeper's son would tell him to sweep the floor for him or go and fetch another case of mead or the draugr would get him.
Now he was face to face with the source of his childhood nightmares. The creature growled something in some language that Leto had never heard from its dried up throat and its creaking arms raised the axe it had been resting against the floor. This snapped the Nord back to his senses and he drew his own significantly smaller weapon. He was grateful that the undead creature was slow, despite wielding the long-handled weapon. The sideways swing was easily ducked and Leto brought his sword up and under the draugr's ribs, praying that even though the thing was already dead – well, at least it was only wandering around through some kind of dark magic – that stabbing it in whatever was left of its heart and lungs would put it down permanently.
His guilt at being a trespasser in the ancient resting place was forgotten when the bone-walker didn't seem even a little bothered by the fact it had just been impaled. Leto gulped when he realised that, if anything, he had just made it angry.
Its mouth opened and it again spoke in the unknown language. The young Nord tried to keep from vomiting as he caught sight of the shrivelled, black tongue, lolling inside its mouth. He staggered back, shielding his face with an arm, as the draugr laughed at his obvious horror, spraying him with foul breath it should not have had. It lifted its axe and shambled forward, still grinning.
Leto would like to say that it was a sudden burst of intuition or skill that had miraculously come over him that enabled him to drive his sword into the undead abomination, over and over, and dodge every swing of its axe meant to take his head off. But the reality was that he was close to soiling his armour in terror and just wanted the thing to stop moving and laughing!
When it finally fell to the floor, the young Nord tried to pull his sword back so he could get out of the chamber as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. He cursed when he realised that in his panic, he'd somehow managed to drive it through what was left of the breastplate of the draugr's decayed armour and it was wedged.
He gripped the hilt with both hands to yank it free and wound up stumbling backward, only to find himself slamming into another draugr. He hollered in shock and spun, lashing out with his sword and slicing through the leathery skin of its torso where the ancient armour had deteriorated and fallen away, nearly cleaving it in two. A rattling croak escaped its throat as it crumpled heavily to the ground, falling half-slumped against an empty alcove where bodies were laid to rest.
Leto kept gripping his sword, hands trembling and breathing heavily as he spun his head wildly, searching for any movement that said another unnatural monstrosity from myth was rising from its supposedly-eternal slumber to come and kill him.
He'd always known he wouldn't be able to sneak up on a deaf man, but to have literally woken the dead? That had to be some kind of record. His previous attempts – poor as they were – were abandoned as he backed away from the pair of corpses. The dead were walking, and apparently had fantastic hearing considering their ears had rotten away.
The sound of a rusted blade being drawn from behind him had Leto whipping around. He stared in horror as a greatsword wielding corpse rolled its shoulders as though warming up living muscle for a fight. He stepped back, adjusting his grip on his own sword, and something caught his eye.
The pressure stone that he had guessed would cause the spiked, wooden gate to snap shut was close to him. He shot a glance at the draugr as it started toward him and made up his mind. If the gods were merciful, then this would work, and the runed stone would be connected to the gate… and time won't have eroded whatever mechanisms made it function.
If the gods had decided that it was too amusing watching him flail around like a fool, then his idea would likely wind up with him flying into the arms of the draugr. While he wasn't as badly injured as he could have been after all the fighting he'd done, it had started taking its toll. The arrow wound in his arm throbbed bitterly after Arvel had clawed it, and his body was aching from far more bruises and batterings than he really wanted to think about. But this crazy idea might just let him keep some of what little energy he had left and mean he wouldn't have to worry about receiving any more wounds from that giant sword being carried by the undead monster.
With a grunt, he lunged forward, slamming his foot down onto the circular stone plate. Without even waiting to make sure it had worked, he dove aside and rolled, pressing himself as flat against the wall as he could. His efforts were rewarded with the sight of the spiked gate slamming into the unwitting draugr with enough force to snap bones. The sword was knocked from its fingers as the speed of the trap swept it off its feet and threw it across the room to slam, face first, into one of the stone columns that supported the ceiling. Leto gave a breathless laugh as it slid to the floor, the glowing blue life-magic gone from its hollow sockets.
Somehow he managed to haul himself up onto his hands and knees. The wooden gate creaked in protest as it slowly swung back into its original position. As Leto dragged himself to his feet, using the carvings in the stone wall, rather than the crypt beds to help, he looked around the room, straining all senses to try and detect any sign of movement.
For now, at least, it seemed that the dead were staying put.
Between the traps – one of which being a corridor filled with swinging axes that almost had him losing limbs – the draugr that either rose from their stone beds or simply shoved open their sarcophagi to lurch at him and the mind-boggling maze of the tomb, Leto's nerves were frayed and he was about ready to simply turn around and leave by the time he made it to the dusty chamber decorated on both sides with murals.
All exhaustion faded as he looked around. He wished he'd thought to buy some torches or retrieve the one from the bandit that had been killed by shooting darts so he could get a better look. At least the spilt braziers offered enough light for him to make out most of the details. His eyes grew wide and he suddenly felt like a child again, listening to his mother's stories, curled up in bed with his eyes closed to picture himself in the world her narratives created. He was standing in a Hall of Stories and it looked exactly like his mother had described.
Ancient gods whose names he knew and who he'd prayed to almost every day growing up stared back at him as he traced his fingers over the dusty and cobweb-shrouded reliefs. He knew that these told spun a tale, spoke of a part of history that verged on religious myth, but that had been whole heartedly believed by his ancient kinsmen. He wished he could read the symbols and images to know what they said… but beyond using his imagination and what his mother had told him, he had no idea what they meant.
Through effort of will alone, he managed to tear his eyes away from the walls to keep moving. His way ahead was blocked by some kind of round, stone door. Plaques depicting more of the ancient gods were set onto three rings around some kind of keyhole. He frowned and moved toward it, reaching out and touching the cold stone and testing to see if the rings could be moved. It took some effort and earned him a dust cloud puffing out into his face, but he managed to change the image. A combination lock, much like the lever from the gate-room and pillars.
He turned his attention to the keystone. Three round holes were at the top of the circular piece of stone and beneath them was a carving that resembled a dragon's claw. A humourless chuckled escaped him at that; if only dragon's feet were really that small.
Well, the ornament from the Riverwood Trader was obviously some kind of key or handle to open the strange, round door… that was why the Dunmer thief had stolen it in the first place. He believed there was treasure on the other side, and that the claw would give him access. But what was the damned code? Leto was no scholar, but he knew that if he just spun the rings through every combination they could make he'd be there for the rest of his life… and if a wrong combination triggered a trap, then that might not be very far into the future.
The last puzzle he'd had to solve had been much simpler than he'd expected, having nothing to do with the gods at all, their symbols being used for just that: pictures. The answer had been on the wall above his head. But somehow he didn't think the people who built Bleak Falls Barrow would use the same trick twice, especially if there really was something of value on the other side of the door. And Leto was hoping for that something being the Dragonstone. He hadn't seen anything that might be what the Jarl and wizard had wanted anywhere else, but he was sure that there were only so many ways a stone tablet could look, so he couldn't have missed it.
The mighty dragons hold the secrets of the past in their talons. A line from one of his mother's stories entered his mind then. He reached into his pack and drew out the ornament that had been stolen from Lucan.
"I wonder…" he murmured to himself and spun the claw over in his hand.
He grinned triumphantly as he looked at the 'palm' of the claw. While the symbols had warn a little through time, it seemed that all the previous owners and Lucan himself had taken good care of their treasure, because he could make out their shapes easily enough.
With grunts of effort and curses of pain as the movements caused his injured arm and bruised ribs to throb in protest, Leto pushed the rings until they matched the code on the claw. The echoes of stone scraping stone finally faded and he prayed there was nothing left to wake up with the noise. From what he knew, this should be the final chamber of the Barrow. If the Dragonstone was ever in the tomb, it was on the other side of the door. He just hoped that that's all that was there.
He slid the prongs of the claw-key into their holes and twisted the 'ankle' of the ornament that was actually a handle.
The rings that he'd just spend so much time and energy forcing into position spun as though they were the cogs of a well-oiled Dwemer machine – making the young Nord scowl – until they all read Akatosh. There was a second of silence, then the door began to sink into the floor. Leto was covered in a rain of dust and chipped stone and he staggered back, coughing and waving his arms wildly to try and clear the air.
That hadn't happened in his mother's stories. The hero of the tale had opened the door and entered into a room filled with the greatest treasures ever forgotten by the Nords. He hadn't been showered in rubble and then blasted with the stench of damp earth, rotted plant and dead animal or the faeces left behind by their living kin.
He couldn't figure out why he could smell what he did until he made it to the top of the stairs immediately behind the door. The constructed hallways gave way to a massive natural cavern, littered with a few manmade objects that were almost entirely swallowed by mosses, lichens and centuries of fallen dirt.
The next thing that caught his attention was faint chanting. He didn't realise that it didn't echo in the open cavern as it should. Instead he felt relief that someone was madder or stupider than he was… or at least equally so, for being down in the bowels of the Barrow.
And then he was cursing in a combination of wonder and frustration. On the far side of the cavern, built up on a huge stone platform and framed by waterfalls, was a decorative curved wall. It looked as though it had been designed to elicit a reaction of awe, and it certainly achieved that as Leto gazed at it with his jaw hanging open. But that feeling was equalled by irritation. Looming above the etched plane of the lower section was a massive depiction of what Leto assumed was a dragon's head. But it was the etchings themselves that were the source of his curses. Even with his illiteracy, the distance he was standing at and in the poor lighting he could see that the markings were some kind of jagged script etched into the white stone. It wasn't the common tongue – he knew enough about words to know that – and he was fairly certain it wasn't any form of meri script either. It could only be the Dragon Stone he had been sent to retrieve… but how in the name of Dibella's bouncing tits was he supposed to do so? It was as wide as a house and just as tall, it wasn't exactly going to fit into his knapsack.
He hadn't realised he'd been walking forward until he wandered too close to a flock of bats that had been nesting, unseen, in the cavern's roof. They startled and took flight in a swarm of screeching fur and leathery wings. Leto yelped and flung an arm up to protect his face, the other wrenching his sword from its sheath, as the warm bodies blew past.
When the flock was gone, leaving the young Nord's heart racing and cursing in ways that would have seen him getting his hide tanned with his father's belt – even at this age – he swiped instinctively at his face. He took a moment to steady himself, glancing over his shoulder to glare at the wide tunnel in the cave roof that the bats had disappeared into, then turned back to focus on the wall.
Something wasn't right. He could still hear the chanting, it was growing louder – more insistent – with every step closer he took to the platform. But he was alone in the chamber. Where were the voices coming from? And the glow that was lighting it up, that he had thought was due to the braziers, seemed to be coming from a cluster of the strange script itself.
What magic was this? Farengar hadn't told Leto anything about the stone he was after having any enchantments on it.
He didn't even notice that he had made his way across the cavern, passing over a narrow stone bridge, or that he now ascended the steps to the platform on which the wall stood. The altar table, large chest and sarcophagus were invisible to the young Nord. All that existed were the blazing markings of the wall and the voices beckoning him closer.
He slowly moved toward the curved, ancient stone with its strangely glowing word, arms hanging at his sides and sword dangling from loose fingers. His head was filled with the echoing chorus of voices, pounding in his head like drums. Light swirled from the wall, reaching for him with a roar like a mountaintop wind, loud enough to drown out even the chanting. The world around him darkened until there was nothing but the blue and golden glow, nothing but the chanting of a single word; Fus.
The skin of Leto's temples felt stretched, his mind ached. He understood that knew knowledge had been poured into him; Fus, meaning Push. His sluggish brain tried to latch onto the word, as though it was something new, something profound and Nirn-shattering… but the grasping fingers of his conscious seemed to fall short just before he could latch onto it. Why did this word feel so different now? It was just a word like any other… so why did he feel like he was missing something? His head felt like it would burst, but at the same time he felt almost empty. There was something he wasn't understanding. But it was as though his mind had been opened and he'd been granted just enough to know, for the first time in his existence, how ignorant he truly was.
It was frustrating and terrifying at the same time. He'd always known he wasn't the brightest spark of the forge, but for once… he knew that there was so much that he didn't understand.
His vision was slowly returning after being robbed by the blinding tendrils of magic-light that had forced themselves into his head. He blinked sluggishly, trying to clear his thoughts. All he could focus on was how, with every blink, he could see the jagged script glowing. The light had faded from the stone of the wall itself, but it had burned itself into Leto's retinas.
The feeling of a sword slicing through the armour and flesh of his back snapped him out of whatever trance he'd been in with a cry of pain. He stumbled face first into the carved wall that was now spattered with his blood. He spun around, putting his back to word that had driven itself into his mind. He could feel warmth dripping down his back beneath his armour. Of all the places he could have been struck, his new enemy had found one of the few weak places between steel plates where there was only leather between his flesh and the edge of a blade.
At first Leto had thought that he had been so entranced by the strange wall that he had completely missed the mysterious chanters, but at the same time as he laid eyes on the draugr he realised that the moment he had absorbed whatever power the wall had been holding, the voices had also stopped. Mere feet from where the undead abomination stood, a sarcophagus he hadn't noticed before lay open, the heavy stone lid thrown aside as though it had weighed nothing.
Unlike the rest of the bone-walkers he'd encountered in Bleak Falls Barrow, this one was wearing better armour; less decayed and the helm decorated with large horns that curved slightly from the top of its head. The rusted greatsword clenched in its desiccated hands glistened in the brazier light with Leto's blood. That snapped the young Nord back to reality and he scrambled to retrieve his own sword that he'd dropped after being sliced open.
By the time he had managed and spun to face the undead creature, it had its weapon raised and was mid-swing. Leto lurched aside, narrowly avoiding losing his head. As he stumbled to regain his balance, he took a mad swipe, missing the draugr entirely.
The two circled each other. Leto could feel the malicious intelligence radiating from those blue-glowing eyes as they bore into him. The thing was studying him, watching him to see what his next move would be. It was even more unsettling than just fighting an undead creature; it was smart and calling upon the combat experience it had had in life. The young Nord feigned a strike, quickly wrenching his sword back to come over the draugr's block and slice open its shoulder. It gave a loud growl as its leathery flesh parted but no blood oozed out, having dried up long ago.
Leto didn't have long to feel proud of his strike as the long-dead warrior dropped its jaw open and shouted at him. The pants-wetting bolt of fear that surged through him disappeared a second later when he suddenly realised his feet were no longer touching solid ground. The dank cave whirled around him as he sailed through the air as he cried out in confusion. One of the words that had come from the creature's mouth he recognised; fus. Was it some kind of spell? What power had he accidentally –
His body slammed against hard-packed and damp earth, forcing the air from his lungs in a loud grunt. His limbs flailed madly as he rolled down a short but rocky slope before being dunked in the frigid water of one of the streams created by the waterfalls inside the cavern. Coughing and spluttering, Leto managed to drag himself half out of the ditch. Fearful of where the draugr was, he swiped his wet and muddy hand over his face to clear it of water and hair, blinking and whipping his head around.
The dusty old bone-walker was still standing near its former resting place, shrivelled throat barking out husky laughter. Leto felt his face flush. He scrambled up the edge of the stream and retrieved his sword, baring his teeth and trying to ignore how his slices ached with the muddy water entering them and his aching muscles protested at being forced to move after being thrown like a ragdoll.
"You think that's funny do you?!" he roared and started back toward the platform.
If the draugr heard him, it gave no indication, too busy laughing. Leto couldn't believe that he was being humiliated by a man who'd been dead longer than history remembered. The fear of the unnatural way these warriors were up and fighting again had faded after his unexpected bath and was now being replaced with indignant anger. He was tired of this godsforsaken Barrow and its walking dead!
At least the stream had washed off the gore of the bandits and the giant spider he'd been covered in before. Now he was just dripping wet, muddy… and smelled like a wet troll.
His clanging armour broke the draugr out of his humour and its burning gaze settled back on the annoyed Nord. It made a gesture with its sword that obviously said 'come here', its face twisted in a grin that Leto wasn't sure was just because its flesh had withered and tightened on its face. When its jaw flexed, teeth clicking together, he paused. What was to stop the damned thing from bellowing him across the cavern again if he went to face it in melee again? The new wound on his back was throbbing painfully and his injured arm was beginning to feel weak. Could he face this new threat with just his much smaller sword? If he was too slow, he'd be killed.
Baring his teeth in defiance against the taunt, Leto dropped his sword and unslung his bow from his back. Aiming it hurt. Drawing it hurt even more, but it was better than charging back over there and trying to re-kill the draugr while it was trying to kill him.
He loosed the first arrow. It pinged harmlessly off the curved, formerly-magical wall. The undead warrior turned to look at where it landed, then back to Leto. If its face could make expressions, the young Nord was sure it would be looking at him in bemusement. The second and third arrows missed just as spectacularly and the draugr started laughing again.
"Oh, come on!" Leto snarled. His back was burning, every movement of his shoulders tearing at the log slice in his flesh.
The draugr started moving toward the stone steps, eyes fixed on the Nord firing wildly in its general direction. Maybe it had grown bored with waiting.
"No, not you!" Leto cried, glancing behind him to see how much distance he had to back away before he would fall back into the stream. Not enough.
He nocked another arrow and took a steadying breath, closing one eye to try and aim it better. The bone-walker was drawing closer. It was faster than the others in the tomb. With its different armour and its burial location, separate from the rest and behind the Hall of Stories, Leto guessed that it had probably been the commander of the rest when they were alive. When he fired again, the draugr paused to stare at the feathered shaft sticking out of its gut. Leto didn't give himself a chance to feel proud that he'd hit, he was too busy trying to put another one into it.
Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Hit. Shoot. Miss. Shoot… where in Oblivion had that arrow gone? No time to think about that, the undead warrior was getting closer. Leto's reaching fingers were brushing against more air now than shafts. He was running out of arrows. A quick shot that he'd been certain was going to fly wild wound up sinking in the rotten head of the draugr, making its head snap back and causing it to stumble.
The young Nord hissed a cheer, waiting for the thing to drop to the ground. Instead it raised its head again and fixed the twin orbs of burning magic inside its eye sockets on him, feathered shat protruding out from between them.
Leto's jaw dropped and he quickly abandoned his bow for his sword that was laying in the dirt. With a roar that echoed around the cavern, he lunged forward. He didn't care if the thing was already dead or not, an arrow between the eyes should stop anything from moving. It wasn't fair! He hacked away, forcing himself to ignore the pain of the draugr's rusted sword cutting into his own flesh. Pain he could handle. Pain was good; it meant he was still alive and fighting.
When one of his savage blows was dodged, he reversed the swing and slammed the hilt down on the horned helmet. If his opponent were alive it would have rattle its brain. Being dead, however, it only served to knock it askew and push the creaking creature to its knees. Leto bellowed and arced his sword downward at the exposed neck. All of the recent fighting he'd put his new blade through had dulled the edge some, but it was still sharp enough to slice through the dead skin and vertebrae and sever the draugr's head from its shoulders.
When the two parts slumped into the wet dirt, Leto staggered back. "That had better have killed you!"
There was no response. He gingerly kicked the head so he could see its eye-sockets. They were empty of any magical faux-life. Leto rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Despite everything, he felt guilty about desecrating the crypt and mutilating the bodies within… but he reasoned it hadn't entirely been his fault. And after the damned things had woken up and tried to kill him, he certainly wasn't going to return them to their places. For all he knew the strange, evil life that had possessed them would return and they'd try to throttle him while he moved them.
After picking back up his bow and slinging it over his shoulder, he made his way back over to the platform with the strange wall. With his unexpected interruption over, he was free to fret about what in Oblivion had happened and what he was supposed to do about the Dragonstone.
Is that what he had absorbed? The Jarl's wizard had seemed determined that the stone tablet he was after was going to help answer questions about the dragons. But he'd wanted it brought to him… presumably not within the head of 'a hired brute' who couldn't even understand what had forced itself into his mind. All he could grasp was one word that he didn't even know the meaning of.
Leto traced his fingers along the sharp lines of the word that had been glowing before. Would Farengar be pissed at what had happened… or was this his plan all along? No, that couldn't be right. Surely if there was some new knowledge to absorb, then he would have wanted it for himself.
But then what was Leto supposed to have done about the wall? From what the wizard had said, he'd thought it was relatively small, small enough, at least, to be transported back. The mage had said to bring him the stone, after all. If he'd believed it to be as large as a building, presumably he would have told him to pick up different supplies or return to escort him once whatever dangers within the Barrow were cleared out. Leto had no paper of charcoal to make rubbings of the massive wall. And there was no way he could memorise what was scratched into the stone. He could barely remember the letters his mother had taught him to write his own name, let alone the chicken-scratch symbols of an entirely new – or possibly so ancient it was forgotten – language.
"To Oblivion with it," he muttered, turning away from the wall.
There was nothing he could change about what happened. Whatever he had absorbed, it was done now. If that interfered with whatever Farengar wanted with it, then that was his problem. He should have made sure that whatever 'source' told him about the Dragonstone had checked their facts about its size and what it was. He'd return Lucan's golden claw ornament to him and buy paper and charcoal. Then he'd return once he'd patched his wounds and make rubbings to take to the court wizard.
He started shambling toward the steps on the other side of the platform, behind the sarcophagus, careful not to slip on the moss-slick stones. The staircase seemed to lead up to a tunnel and in his current battered, exhausted and frustrated state he wasn't even sure he'd make it to the top of them without tumbling back down. But his only other choice was the drag himself all the way back through the entirety of the Barrow… which wasn't happening.
He had to pause by the open sarcophagus to rest for a moment, leaning both hands against the edge. He closed his eyes, hoping that he could stop his head from spinning by sheer force of will alone. He hurt in more places he could remember ever hurting before. Even spending a day slaving away at the forge with his father pushing him to work harder and faster didn't leave him this sore.
Then again, he may have burned himself a thousand times blacksmithing, but he'd never had an arrow shot through his arm or had half his back sliced open while working. With a low groan, he pried his leaden eyelids open and made to push himself upright.
Something inside the stone coffin caught his attention and he reached in to pick it up. When he saw a miniature version of the dragon-like head that was above the wall with the strange script etched on one flat side of the stone tablet he sighed heavily. So this was the real Dragonstone, tucked away with a dead warrior for however many centuries… and he'd nearly walked away without it. The rest of the cracked face was covered in a map with numerous location markers on them. It took a moment, but Leto finally recognised the shape of the depicted land as Skyrim from the map he had bought from the Riverwood Trader. The locations meant nothing to him, but he guessed that they might to someone who could actually read one. He turned it over and saw more of the same script as on the wall.
Leto found himself grinning, his fatigue forgotten along with his confusion about what the writing on the wall meant and why he had absorbed magic from it. He had the golden claw and the real Dragonstone; both things he'd been sent into this godsdamned Barrow to retrieve. He wouldn't have to come back later, he wouldn't have to face Farengar's anger at accidentally stealing some power that he wanted… though he'd still probably have to ask the arrogant wizard about what exactly that power might be and what it would do to him.
He wrapped the Dragonstone in a spare shirt and carefully tucked it into his knapsack along with the golden claw. The tablet was heavier than he expected for its size. Once he'd buckled his pack securely, he moved toward the staircase again with a little more energy than he had before his discovery.
AN:
If you spot any mistakes please let me know so i can fix them I hope you are enjoying Leto's story so far.
On a more fun note, some of the scenes from this story are actually directly from my game-play experience (such as the being snuck up on by the draugr lord at the Word Wall) Also, i'm hoping to expand more on the absorbing of souls and Words, rather than just *bam* and its done. I hope you enjoy.
Thank you for reading.